One Eyed Jacks
by Gotham Noir
Summary: A dead man in a high rise apartment signals the beginning of a new chapter in the life of one Gotham Central detective. The search for a killer leads her to search for happiness, or at least acceptance, of her place in the world.
1. Chapter 1: Death Comes to Midtown

One Eyed Jacks

Chapter One : Death Comes to Midtown

The body lay sprawled across a blood-dappled marble floor, like a forgotten marionette with its strings cut; white silk robe and pajama pants a stark contrast to the ebony flesh. The corpse's bare chest was draped in gold and marred by twin holes torn in soft flesh by the kinetic energy of hot lead. He looked every inch the mahogany god, a dead god, but a god nonetheless.

"We got an ID on the victim?" Renee Montoya asked with a casual ease born of too many such scenes.

"You're kiddin', right?" the uniform at the door, Barrett, she knew him from around, responded, incredulous. The officer had been here for awhile.

"Humor me." Renee studied the body intently.

"The vic's name is Forest Jacks, a.k.a. Double Deuce," Barrett stated. "This is his apartment."

"The rapper?" Montoya questioned.

"Rapper, pimp, gang-banger, all around nice guy," Barrett quipped. Renee shot him a glance that ended his editorial.

She stepped back from the body, which lay just inside the foyer of the high-rise apartment, to allow the Crime Scene Unit to make their initial survey of the scene. The Medical Examiner conducted her field exam. The meat thermometer pressed into the victim's liver filled Renee with the usual mix of dread and mirth. She didn't need to be any closer to see the stippling pattern around the gunshot wounds; the victim was shot at close range.

"Any sign of forced entry?" Renee asked. The uniform shook his head. Close range, no forced entry, shot at his own front door… the victim had likely opened that door for his killer. That indicated that the odds were better than average that the victim knew his killer. It shortened the list of suspects, but only slightly.

"Who found the victim?" She wouldn't let herself think of him as Forest, Mr. Jacks, or anything else so familiar. Whatever he had been before, he was just another dead body in Gotham now.

"His business manager, a Mr. Denton Bright," the officer replied. "Mr. Bright stated that he'd made several attempts to contact the victim during the course of the evening without reaching him. Eventually he decided to check in on him, " Barrett read from the notes he'd been taking diligently since his arrival on the scene. "Says he found the victim, then went back into the hall and called 911 on his cellphone."

"Where's Mr. Bright now?" Renee asked absently, her attention still on the view.

"He's in the living room with my partner," Barrett replied, closing the notepad and tucking it away. "He seems pretty shook up".

"Keep him there." Renee shifted her attention to the crime scene technician approaching.

"Detective Bullock said you'd be interested in these." The technician, she thought his name was Gatschall, sidled up beside her with casual disregard for the dead man not ten feet away. He held an oversized playing card between the thumb and forefinger of each hand; presenting them for Renee's review. She studied them for a moment; the jack of spades and the jack of hearts. Each was heavy with coagulated blood.

"Second set of these I've seen this month." Renee's frown reached her voice. "Bullock still around?"

Gatschall shook his head, lips pressed together in knowing disapproval.

"Bastard," she mumbled as she handed the bags back to him.

"Found them on the victim's chest," Gatschall tossed out as he moved to tuck the cards into separate brown paper envelops.

"One-eyed jacks." Renee took a couple of anxious steps toward the living room.

"You think this is a freak case?" Barrett asked from the door.

"Bullock does," Renee snapped before she could restrain herself. "It's hard to tell, though; can't see the pattern yet, if there is one."

"Think he's gonna turn up?" the uniform asked eagerly.

"Who?" Gatshall asked.

"The Batman." Barrett couldn't help but smile when he said the name.

"Doesn't matter," Renee's attention drifted to the polished floor. "We're the ones the people of Gotham are paying to catch this guy. We have to do our job with or without him."

The sickly-wet sound of the Medical Examiner drawing the thermometer from the victim's abdomen pulled Renee's attention back to the body.

"Liver temp puts the time of death at about three to four hours ago." The M.E. tossed the fact out like a crumb to a pigeon.

"Between midnight and one a.m.," Renee did the math out loud. "What time'd the call come in?"

"911 dispatched us at 2:45 on the dot." Barrett didn't need his notepad for that answer. Renee raised a questioning eyebrow at him. "We were at the bodega over on 24th, Reggie's got this huge digital clock behind the register, can't miss it."

Montoya knew the place.

Renee tucked her hands into the pockets of her overcoat and moved from the foyer into the living room. The high ceiling and the view out of the ceiling-to-floor expanse of glass that made up the outer wall of the luxury high-rise took her by surprise. From her vantage point on the twenty-seventh floor, the Gotham skyline spread out, painted in neon hues of iridescent splendor. Rap had been good to the victim. That view had cost him a pretty penny. The drapes that framed it probably cost more than her car.

The second uniformed officer stood just inside the room, close enough to observe Denton Bright, but far enough away to maintain a dignified respect for the loss of his friend. Denton Bright, on the other hand, sat in a recessed pit ringed by overstuffed couches that framed a massive fireplace. Inside it, a fire glowed brightly.

"Has he talked to anyone?" Renee asked, pausing in the doorway.

The uniform shook his head. "His cellphone's rung half a dozen times. He hasn't answered it."

Renee nodded and crossed the room. Bright paid little attention as she stepped down into the pit.

"Mr. Bright, I'm Detective Renee Montoya. I need to ask you a few questions about your friend's death." She quoted the textbook line with practiced ease. Bright didn't look away from the fire, he just grunted as he nodded slightly. She took that as permission to proceed.

"Mr. Bright, why were you checking on the victim?" she asked, still standing over him.

"He wuz my friend." Bright's tone was flat and smooth.

"You said you'd made several calls this evening. Was there a problem?" Renee took a pen and notepad from her inside jacket pocket.

Bright nodded, his gaze fixed on the fire. "We wuz supposed to meet up at a club with some ladies. Forest never showed. I got concerned."

"Why were you concerned, sir?"

"Wuddint like him, to not show up like that. Not like him a'tall."

"Where were you meeting him?" Renee asked patiently.

"I done told that other cop all this," his tone was still flat, but his demeanor showed clear agitation.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I have to ask again." No need to mention what a useless, crooked bastard Harvey Bullock was. "The name of the club, sir?"

"The Iceberg Lounge."

"Cobblepot's place?"

"What of it? Brother can't see and be seen?"

"Just checking, that's all."

"Double-Deuce liked da cred he got from being seen wid a man like Cobblepot. He thought da fat bastard actually liked him." Denton's gaze stayed fixed on the fire.

"You don't?"

"Da Penguin liked da money Deuce brought intah the club."

"Their relationship was strictly social?" Renee watched Bright closely as she asked that question.

"What you mean?"

"Your friend wasn't an angel, Mr. Bright." Renee paused. "It's not a stretch to think he and the Penguin might have had some deals off the books."

Bright huffed, smirking and shaking his head, "Hell no, they didn't have no business like that. Weren't for ah lack of sniffing after table scraps on Deuce's parts, though. Penguin was too good for the likes of us."

"So they discussed it?"

"Deuce went beggin' tah massah's table, got told 'no' every time, if that's what you call 'discussing' it."

"The deceased employed a bodyguard, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Bright answered flatly.

"Did he have the night off?"

"Don't know, but rest assured that I aim ta find out."

"When was the last time you spoke to the deceased, sir?"

"This afternoon. We were… inspecting some of his holdings..."

Interlude 

Renee watched the sun rise over Cape Carmine from the high-speed lane of the Sprang Bridge. An accident on the north side of the bridge had traffic slowed to a crawl-a very old, arthritic crawl. Being trapped in the northbound lane had given her a half hour she hadn't expected, which she used to replay her interview of Denton Bright. Their twenty minutes together had convinced her that Bright was nothing more than an unlucky man, one who had lost his friend and his meal ticket. There was still a lot of work to be done with respect to his relationship with Forest Jacks, his only client. Despite that, years on the job were already telling her he wasn't her perp. Some people just weren't killers.

The hollow stillness of her third floor walk up reminded her that there hadn't been any rush to get home. She'd been coming home to silence since Labor Day, though she did her best not to notice. It was easy to forget sometimes; she and Daria had been together for nearly three years. She knew she had missed signs of the other woman's unhappiness, of her worry and concern, but then she was very good at ignoring what she didn't want to see. Pushing the door closed behind her, she tossed her keys onto the breakfront. They hit the dark wood with a heavy finality. The small wicker basket that had been there to collect the accumulated contents of her pockets was gone; a victim of blind sorrow and one scotch too many. There had been a lot of those. She reached for the light-switch, hesitated, and then opted for the golden sunlight –iced with dust- that streamed in through the slats of the shuttered windows.

Across the room, next to the broken down sofa, the answering machine offered nothing new. She hit 'play' anyway, just in case. The chance to hear Daria's voice on the greeting wasn't unwelcome. The lack of a message light hadn't misled her: nothing. She shrugged free of her overcoat, tossed it at the sofa, and watched as it landed askew across the arm before it slid to the floor. She left it there. The bare floor, between the living room and the small dining area, mocked her as she crossed the place where the rug had been, the rug they'd bought at the street market over on Coastline. She undid the straps of her shoulder holster, leaving it to hang loosely from her shoulders as she entered the kitchen. The refrigerator was empty, again. The cabinet above the sink wasn't. A half-empty bottle of Maker's Mark and a water glass in hand, she sulked back to the sofa and collapsed into the worn cushions.

With practiced ease, she opened the bottle of whiskey and splashed three fingers into the glass before setting the bottle on the end-table. Her attention lingered on the answering machine. She stared at the message counter as if she could will the zero away. She tossed the whiskey back hard, swallowed angrily, and then snatched the bottle back up. She filled the glass again, three fingers worth, no more, and set the bottle aside. A sob choked her throat. Draining the second course of her liquid dinner, she set the glass aside while absently kicking her shoes off. She twisted on the sofa, pulled the heavy afghan from the back down, and wrapped it around herself. The warmth of hard liquor on her empty stomach gently enfolded her in its arms as she sunk into the sofa where she'd been living. Reminded of the weapon in her holster, she drew it out from under the afghan. She looked at it for a long moment, felt the weight of it in her hand, and finally dropped it onto the floor beside the sofa. Drawing her arm back under the afghan, she hugged the blanket tightly to her. Heavy eyes closed, heavy sorrow pulled her into darkness, until sleep put it all behind her.


	2. Chapter 2: Just the Facts Ma'am

One Eyed Jacks

Chapter Two : Just the Facts, Ma'am.

Most days, the squad room of the Major Crimes Unit was reserved, even quiet. It lacked the atmosphere typically found in other departments; there were no drunks, vagrants, or prostitutes to process. In point of fact, precious little happened there that would have made for good police television. Phone calls were placed and returned, alibis checked, and there was the occasional interview. Beyond that, the squad room was pretty dull.

When Renee pushed her way through the heavy oak door, with its chicken-wire-reinforced window, and into the squad room, it was quieter than usual. Half the usual number of detectives was there, all busy at their own tasks in the dim yellow light of their respective desk lamps. Only a few pale rays of the impotent winter sun penetrated the narrow windows along the far wall. Shrugging out of her coat, she crossed the room, headed toward the cluttered desk that served as her home away from home.

Once she'd shrugged free of her coat, she hung it neatly on the back of her chair. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bullock, Detective Lieutenant Harvey Bullock, coming in her direction. He had a thick file in his meaty hands and she knew instinctively that her desk was his destination. She pretended not to see, savoring every moment free of him she could get.

"Morning, Montoya," Bullock slurred, cigar stub tucked into the corner of his mouth. City ordinance made it illegal to smoke inside the building. Chewing the stub was Bullock's personal rebellion.

"Lieutenant." Renee forced half a smile, which conveyed politeness, nothing more. They had been friends once, and partners. Once she trusted him with her life, but that was all in the past.

Harvey hadn't taken it well when she came out; not that he was a jilted suitor, more of a disappointed big brother. He'd been the first to use the word 'dyke' to her face. She had forgiven him for that. Her own parents had disowned her, what could she expect from Harvey? What she couldn't forgive were his connections to the biggest names in Gotham's mafia elite. More specifically, she couldn't forgive his making her party to those associations; for removing all doubt from her mind that he was, if not a cop on the take, then at least a cop willing to look away when expedient. She knew enough about Harvey's side deals and arrangements to know that she wanted clear of them, but she couldn't say a word to anyone. He was her partner; there were rules, unwritten, but inviolate. Partners kept each other's secrets. If she broke that rule, if she turned him in to Internal Affairs, no one would ever forget, no matter what Harvey had done. The best she could do was distance herself from him; she had done so. When Harvey had been promoted she'd been assigned to a special duty detail; one that had spared her a new partner, but that couldn't last for long. She'd already milked it longer than she ever dreamed possible.

"You caught a live one here, Renee." Bullock dropped the file onto her desk when he realized she wasn't going to accept it graciously.

"Thanks for that, by the way." Renee rummaged through the clutter on her desk and retrieved her coffee cup.

"What are friends for?" Bullock smiled wolfishly. The air between them was heavy with silence. He lowered his voice. "You look like shit, and whatever you're using to knock the crust off your teeth ain't covering up the booze."

"I'm fine." She dropped her eyes and fidgeted with the cup, swirling the half inch of stale coffee and curdled cream around the bottom.

"Sober I'll give you, but not alright." Bullock crossed his massive forearms over his chest.

"I'm fine." Renee hardened her voice and lifted her gaze in as direct a challenge as she could muster.

"Here's the deal." Bullock stepped closer and spoke more softly yet. "This one is going to hit the papers. Folks down at City Hall are going to be all over the Commish to stop whichever freak the Bat's drawn out this time. Don't make him look bad."

"I'm fine, Harvey," she whispered through clenched teeth.

"Bullock." the voice cut through their tension. Captain Sawyer was standing in the doorway to the squad room; a few steps ahead of her Commissioner James Gordon had pulled up short of her office.

"Yeah, Captain," Bullock replied. His body language held Renee at her desk. They weren't through, and he meant for the young woman to understand that clearly. Jim Gordon evidently meant to leave the situation to his subordinate, as he shot her a quick look and disappeared into her office.

Maggie Sawyer studied the two for a moment before she spoke again. "If you and Detective Montoya are finished, the Commissioner would like to speak to both of you in my office."

"Sure thing, we're done here." Bullock shot Renee a glance that assured her they weren't, before turning and heading to the Captain's office. Renee set her cup aside and followed in his wake.

Interlude 

Renee did her best thinking in traffic, and all the beatification projects in Midtown ensured that she had plenty of time to do that thinking. She had an appointment across town, but that didn't matter to the line of dump trucks queued up to clear debris from the renovation of St. Swithin's Cathedral.

The meeting in Captain Sawyer's office had been short and to the point. Someone in the department was passing information to the press. The media knew about the link between Forest Jacks' death and that of Anatoly Pervenesch three weeks earlier. The link -the set of playing cards- had prompted the press to give the killer a name, One-Eyed Jack. While the Commissioner wasn't happy about the leaks, he was more concerned by the fact that Eliot Tanner, a less-than-forthright reporter with the Globe, had been given access to Forest Jacks' crime scene. Someone was due for a career change. But that wasn't Renee's problem. She'd be spending "as long as it took" piecing together the details of the crimes and putting an end to Death's latest errand boy's tenure in Gotham.

She spent most of the morning covering three whiteboards and a corkboard with details gleaned from the files. She'd covered index cards with facts and questions, grouping and organizing them in search of a pattern. Anatoly Pervenesch, the first victim, had been an enforcer with a Russian organized crime family. In his short fifteen years in Gotham, he had earned himself a reputation for brutality and sadism that did his KGB roots proud. Jacks and Pervenesch were both criminals, but they were unlikely to have had many associates in common. Pervenesch was nearly-illiterate muscle, a blunt object in a pea coat and work pants, while Jacks had been a drug dealer and pimp in a three thousand dollar suit.

Like Jacks, Pervenesch had been found dead in his own home-in his case a third floor walk up above a borsht-and-potato dive at the edge of the rust belt out in Lynntown. The restaurant owner had found him the next morning when he failed to show up for his usual breakfast of coffee and eggs. Neither crime scene showed signs of forced entry. Both men had been found in relaxed dress: Jacks in his robe and pajamas, Pervenesch in sock feet and boxers. Both had been shot at point-blank range, twice in the chest.

Escaping traffic, Renee wheeled her department-issue sedan into the underground lot at the County Building. She had a 10:30 appointment with the remains of Forest Jacks, who himself had an appointment with the Medical Examiner. It was the last physical he'd ever have. Renee stepped out from the car, and checked her watch as she closed the door behind her. Adjusting her shoulder holster under her coat, she made for the elevator.

Renee hated watching human beings get systematically disassembled. She knew an autopsy served a vital purpose, but it seemed wrong somehow that the search for a killer demanded the victim surrender what little dignity remained them. The interruption of a productive morning of brainstorming only served to doubly her disquiet with this particular autopsy. With a little luck, her 'groove' would return when she made it back to the conference room.

The elevator opened on a reception area on the fifth floor, where the air stank of bleach and too much air freshener. A round-faced woman in horn-rimmed glasses with a hairstyle three decades out of fashion smiled vacantly at her as she crossed the room to the reception desk.

"Detective Montoya." She presented her identification to the other woman. "I'm here to observe the Jacks' procedure."

"Of course." the receptionist's smile never waivered as her eyes flicked from Renee's ID to the papers on the desk before her. "Autopsy three; Dr. Miller has already begun."

"Thank you," Renee replied as she clipped the ID onto her shirt collar and crossed to the heavy wooden doors at the back of the room.

Windowless and sterile, the main hallway through the coroner's lab was dimly lit, casting it in blacks and grays that added to the eeriness of the place. It wasn't that Renee felt the place should be done up in pinks- after all this was someplace where people received the worst news imaginable-but Renee never understood the need to cast that moment in shades of despair before the drawer had even been opened.

"You're late," Doctor Vincent Miller challenged blandly as she stepped into the autopsy room. His feigned indignity at her tardiness was punctuated by the sound of wet flesh dropping into the stainless steel scale pan.

"Traffic, sorry." Renee moved into the shadows at the edge of the coroner's stage.

"Why should today be any different? It's just as well, I suppose. No sense wasting your time." Miller lifted the organ from the scale tray and set it aside.

"How's that?" She kept her face hidden to protect it from the sharp transition from light to darkness, the better to mask any discomfort.

"No big mystery as to what killed this fellow." He looked at her over dull plastic safety glasses.

"What did you find?" Renee shifted her gaze from Jacks' remains to Miller.

"Gunshot wound to the chest," Miller answered flatly.

"No kidding? Fabulous work, Holmes," Renee quipped, biting back a soft chuckle.

"Would it impress you if I told you it was a very large gunshot wound?" Miller crossed to the workbench at the rear of the autopsy theater. He wiped his hands on his apron before taking a sip of coffee.

"Look at you. All those years of medical school are finally paying off," Renee smirked.

He ignored her. "What if," he continued, "I told you that the second shot was a waste of a perfectly good bullet?"

Renee didn't respond. Miller sipped his coffee again and crossed back into the harsh light that bathed Jacks and the stainless steel bed on which he was reposed.

"Whoever shot him used a cannon." Miller grew serious as he positioned an exam light low over Jacks' chest. "Step over here and take a look."

"No, thanks, I'm fine right here," Renee replied as she unconsciously took a step backward.

"Suit yourself." Miller carefully opened the corpse's chest cavity and laid the flaps of the Y-incision aside. "The first bullet shattered the sternum before piercing the heart; I found bone fragments scattered through all four chambers. The heart's in the tray, if you'd like a look at it." Miller jerked his thumb toward the scale.

"Did you find the bullet?" Renee ignored the offer.

Miller chuckled. "Nope. It went out the back. Shattered the T-4 and T-5 vertebrae on its way, and severed the spinal cord. He was dead before the second bullet was even fired."

Renee pulled her notepad from her pocket; she'd need to remind the CSU guys to sweep for a bullet. "Can you estimate the size of the round based on the entry wound?"

"I can do better than that," Miller answered, looking up from Jacks and switching the exam light off.

"Do tell?" Renee's left eyebrow shot up She secretly loved the fact that she'd learned that bit of self-expression.

"The second bullet impacted the scapula; it's in the tray over there." Miller pointed to a small stainless steel tray on a nearby workbench.

"You couldn't just say, 'I've got a bullet for you, Renee'?" she quipped, rolling her eyes as she moved to the counter where the tray sat.

"Where's the fun in that?" Miller pulled his gloves off and tossed them into the bio-hazard can. "Not sure it'll be of much use. It's in pretty bad shape; hit a rib on the way in and then smashed against the scapula. Ballistics won't be able to match it to a weapon."

"It's huge," Renee commented, her eyes fixed on the flattened mass of lead soaking in alcohol. "What do you think, a .45?"

"I'm no expert on bullets, just the damage they cause, but I did weigh it." Miller retrieved his coffee and moved alongside Renee. "And if I were a betting man-which, of course, I am (we missed you and your paycheck Friday night, by the way)-I'd say Mr. Jacks was shot with a weapon that chambers a .50 caliber round."


	3. Chapter 3: Leg Work

One Eyed Jacks

Chapter Three : Leg Work

The darkness was comforting somehow, familiar, accepting. In the darkness, she didn't feel so alone. In the darkness, there was the promise, the hope, of light. Again. Maybe. Renee sat quietly in the overstuffed chair by the picture window, her knees drawn to her chest. She was wearing the button down Oxford Daria had accidently left behind. It still smelled like her. With one hand she clutched the picture of them-the one they'd taken at the Shore-to her chest. She held a vapor filled bottle of Maker's Mark in the other. Half a bottle of Maker's Mark had left her unfit to move back to the sofa, so she sat in the overstuffed chair by the picture window and watched the world wash away the remnants of her life.

"… _Not if you care for me, Stay little valentine, stay …"_ Rachelle Ferrell, played softly on the stereo, mourning her own loss.

She watched the storm raging across the Gotham skyline. Her view wasn't as pricy as the one from Forest Jacks' apartment, but it was familiar and soothing. She had always liked storms. Had the weather been warmer she would have gone to the roof and shouted into the downpour at the God who would let her find love, declare it wrong, and then take it from her. She'd come home to find Daria on her way out. She was packing the last of her things in a canvas grocery bag, evidently hoping to come and be gone again before Renee returned. The awkward moment in the hallway had lasted for a century. Neither had known what to say. Daria's resolve had seemed to slip, if only for a moment. In the end, Daria had needed it to end with finality. Renee had needed to save the only thing in her life worth saving. Both lost.

Interlude 

Anatoly Pervenesch's file was well on its way to the cold case squad when Forest Jacks' murder cast it in a new light. There were no witnesses, no evidence, not much in the way for concern over his passing… He didn't have family, not in the traditional sense. He'd left everyone behind when he'd immigrated. He'd forged new ties in the service of Dmitri Konovalov. To his credit, Konovalov had left his offices in Little Odessa to claim Pervenesch's remains personally, and promptly had them cremated. The crime scene, Pervenesch's apartment, had been cleared as soon as CSU was certain they'd done everything expected of them.

Renee had hoped to avoid the lunch crowd by dropping into Kopeyka's Deli just after one p.m. She failed. The crowd was lighter than she'd have had to endure closer to midday, but there was a queue nonetheless. Slavic cooking assaulted her Latin senses with a seemingly endless cascade of new scents. She'd never been one to try new foods before she met Daria. Daria had changed a lot of things for her. By the time she made it to the counter she was as interested in the thick potato soup that the servers were carrying past her as she was in information concerning Pervenesch.

"Grisha Kopeyka?" Renee asked as she sidled up to the counter.

"Yes," nodded the balding, thick jowled man behind the counter, his eyes showing concern born of a youth spent behind the Iron Curtain. Old fears died hard.

She flashed her badge. "Detective Montoya, Major Crimes."

"Detective, always happy to have an officer of the law in our place of business." His English lacked the usual heavy accent she expected in the neighborhood, though the grammar was off. "Anything you want, on the house." The fear, however, remained.

"Potato soup and information." Renee smiled disarmingly.

"Soup is easy, information is harder," he laughed and then called her order, in Russian, to one of the others busily working behind the counter.

"I need to know about Anatoly Pervenesch." She tossed a five dollar bill on the counter after consulting the menu board, adding, "for the soup."

The restaurateur scoped up the five dollars and dropped it into the till. "Soup is cheap, information, not so much."

She dug into her pocket, produced a fifty from her department allowance, and placed it on the counter. Grisha smiled a tight-lipped grin. Renee's silent disbelief and knitted brow earned her an equally silent shrug from the older man.

"You better have something spectacular." She peeled another fifty loose and flipped it onto the counter. He scooped it up almost before her hand was clear.

"Come, have a seat," he smiled and came around from behind the counter and ushered her to a small table far too close to the counter to be attractive to most. Renee followed him, taking the seat opposite him.

Grisha leaned in toward her, his elbows on the edge of the table. He studied her for a moment than asked, "What would you know about poor Anatoly?"

"How well did you know him?" Renee sat stiffly in her chair, her gaze locked with his.

"Oh, quite well; he was my cousin. We grew up together in Moscow."

"I don't see a resemblance." Renee accused, shaking her head almost imperceptivity.

"Russians have very big families." Grisha smiled, sitting back and casting his hands wide for a moment.

"You told the officers at the scene that you had breakfast with him every morning-""

"Almost every morning." Grisha corrected her, waggling index finger in the air between them.

"Almost every morning," Renee accepted, "and that he ate dinner here most nights."

"Yes, of course, it is true." Grisha tented his finger between them.

"I have breakfast with my brother from time to time, and when we do, we talk. We talk about work, who we're dating, the things our parents do that drive us crazy..."

"What does this have to do with Anatoly?"

"Well," Renee paused as a waiter appeared and placed a Styrofoam cup of soup in front of her, dropping a handful of crackers and a plastic sheathed spoon beside it. When he was gone she continued, "Well, I was just thinking that you and Anatoly must have talked the same way my brother and I talk."

"Of course we talked," Grisha smiled. "Russians do three things well, eat and talk are just the ones we can discuss in polite company!" His smile melted into hearty laughter.

"You know that you're cousin had a police record?" Renee asked as she opened the Styrofoam container and took a deep breath of the heady aroma that was released.

"He was no angel, but his ways, they are not mine," Grisha shock his finger sternly, but politely, as he spoke. He reminded Renee of her father in that moment. Both were hard- working immigrants. She had no doubts, though, that if she dug deep enough, she'd find Dmitri Konovalov's name in the deli's fine print.

"Had he made anyone particularly unhappy with him?" Renee asked as she tore open the crackers and crumbled them into the soup.

"Anatoly, he did, certain things for Mr. Konovalov," Grisha whispered as he leaned in close. "He had enemies, but they feared him. They fear Mr. Konovalov."

"Those enemies-his, Konovalov's-was there anyone angry enough to hire a person to get it done? Maybe send Konovalov a message?" She stirred the crackers slowly.

"No, he was not so important to Mr. Konovalov."

"He was important enough that Konovalov saw to the arrangements himself."

"A debt of honor owed loyalty, nothing more." Grisha lightly placed his fingertips on her wrist as she raised a spoonful of the thick soup toward her mouth. She watched as he grabbed the pepper shaker and lightly dusted the surface of the soup. "Now stir, then you try." He smiled charmingly. She stirred some more.

"The cards we found at the scene, we've found them again; across town, same M.O., almost the same crime scene." Renee raised another spoonful to her lips, blew softly, and then ate. It was worth the trip.

"You think it was a hit."

"Was it?" She loaded up another spoonful.

"I can tell you, to my knowledge, there is no such talk in the back rooms, no whispers." Grisha slumped slightly. Renee took it as sorrow that his friend's death had been so pointless. "If Anatoly's murderer was hired, it was not related to Mr. Konovalov. I would tell you were it so. Maybe an angry husband? Anatoly had quite the way with the ladies."

Interlude 

Afternoon was turning into evening when Renee decided she'd done enough for the day. The coffee at the bottom of her cup was colder than it had a right to be and her stop-smoking patch had lost its kick hours ago. A cigarette would taste good, she couldn't deny it. She'd stopped smoking for Daria; she had stuck to it for herself. The first week after she'd stopped smoking she had rediscovered flavors in foods that she hadn't tasted since she'd finished her first pack of Lucky Strikes, almost ten years before.

Pushing her hair back behind each ear, she studied the scattered files and papers that marked her progress through the case. The histories of Forest Jacks and Anatoly Pervenesch-at least their histories within the court system-were spread out on the battered conference table. It would have been easier to weigh files than count their pages. The two had thirty-seven arrests between them. Pervenesch accounted for twenty-nine of them, while Jacks' criminal history was penny-ante at best-no matter what his record label wanted the world to believe.

She sat silently for a moment and stared at the jumbled files, trying to think of a way to sort them out. She wasn't sure that she could trust Grisha's information. Murder for hire wasn't cheap. It wasn't the sort of thing someone went into lightly. A pro-and her shooter was clearly a pro-would pull down thirty large, easily. Not many cuckolded husbands could spring for that. She caught the scent of lavender just before her reverie was broken by the sound of someone speaking from the doorway.

"Detective Montoya, I'm glad you're still here." Commissioner Gordon moved a few steps into the room. The lavender scent trailed him. Renee knew full well that it wasn't his style. The scent actually belonged to the woman who followed in his wake. She was older than Renee, but younger than Gordon. Her auburn hair was cut short and she wore glasses that could have doubled for the bottom of a soda bottle. She wore the sort of black business wear-–black off the rack jacket over a light blue turtleneck and black slacks-that would have screamed 'federal agent', even if Renee hadn't noticed the FBI pass clipped to her belt.

"Renee," Gordon continued, "I'd like you to meet Special Agent Velma Dinkley; Agent Dinkley, Detective Renee Montoya."

Renee pasted a smile on her face and took the hand that was offered her. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." Agent Dinkley's smile was disarming, her voice charming in an unexpected way.

'_Did that handshake last longer than it needed to?_' Renee pondered the lingering touch for a moment, and then remembered that it was her case that Dinkley was horning in on.

"Agent Dinkley is on loan to us to assist with the Jacks and Pervenesch cases." Gordon watched Renee's response carefully.

"That's… that's great." Renee pasted the smile on again; extra glue this time.

"This is your investigation, Detective Montoya." Velma's smile was, by far, more genuine than Renee's. "My interest here is only in the chance to study the D.P.S. pathology of your killer. You'll be calling the shots, I'll follow your lead."

"D.P.S.?" Renee questioned, a glance to the Commissioner told her he did understand the term either.

"D.P.S. syndrome; Dramatis Personæ Sceleratus, a fixation with thematic crimes linked to costume or obsession." Velma recited the details of her own obsession.

The fancy term boiled down to a familiar set of perpetrators to the Gotham City detective, "Freaks." Renee asked.

"That would be the common vernacular, yes," Velma answered.

"What makes you think my shooter's a freak?" Renee set her hand on her hip and shifted her weight slightly, unconsciously appearing more aggressive than she'd intended.

"Well, to start with," Agent Dinkley paused for a moment, "This is Gotham City." Her smile never faded. "For another, the evidence to date points to at least two known D.P.S. offenders."

"Really?" Renee's felt her smile slipping.

"The cards you found." Velma stepped forward and, sifting politely through the photos scattered across Renee's table, pulled out a photo of the cards that had been found on Forest Jacks' corpse. "The jack of hearts, and the jack of spades; together they are known as the "one-eyed jacks…"

"We got that part, one-eyed jacks and the king with the axe; any poker player has heard it." Renee's smile dropped loose and broke on the floor.

"Easy, Detective, hear her out," Gordon said, smoothing the moment.

"If I may." Velma measured the moment carefully and then continued. "As I'm sure you're aware, Detective, they are called that because each is shown in profile. The jack of hearts is traditionally shown in left profile, the jack of spades in right profile. One is black, the other red; both otherwise equal, the value of suit notwithstanding. The jack of hearts is traditionally portrayed clean shaven, often with young or naïf appearance. The jack of spades, on the other hand, is traditionally mustachioed, often portrayed as older and sometimes scared or war marked. Further, the suits of a deck of playing cards have their own… personality traits. Hearts are said to stand for-–in addition to love and lovers-those who feel, those who deal in compassion, like humanitarians and caregivers. While the spades are said to stand for those who think with their intellect, like judges or lawyers. They also can be difficult to get along with, as they're all caught up in right and wrong. Do you see a pattern?"

"Yeah, I think I do." Renee hated it, but the fed was making a very good point for her freak shooter angle.

"Placing the cards in the context of the murders," Velma returned the photo to the pile, walked to the corkboard, and studied the photos there, "both victims were shot twice. Add to that Mr. Jack's moniker, Double Deuce, that is to say, 'twenty-two', and you get a match to a known D.P.S. pathology…"

"Two-Face." All three spoke the name at the same time.

Velma smiled and nodded, then continued. "The second pathology is likewise linked to the cards, but only inasmuch as the jack was also known as a knave in the Middle Ages."

Gordon and Montoya waited for her to continue. Her reference held no meaning for either of them.

"A knave was a deceitful person, a rascal or a rogue." Velma studied their faces, searching for some sign of understanding.

"Try again, Agent Dinkley." Gordon urged, rubbing his temple in agitation.

"A jester." Velma's smile had moved from disarming to annoying.

"You think it could be the Joker?" Gordon challenged.

"He is currently incarcerated at Arkham asylum, though, in fairness, the facility is not well-known for its security," Velma answered as she moved to stand between Gordon and Renee, crossing her arms over her chest in a triumphant manner.

"Montoya," Gordon made for the door, "give it a shot. See if her ideas have any merit."

"Commissioner, wait." Renee was close on his heels as he exited the room. She caught his shoulder, but removed her hand when Gordon stopped and turned. He shot a glance past Renee and into the conference room, to Agent Dinkley.

"I don't need this fed following me around trying to turn this case into her own personal science experiment." Renee lowered her voice, though not by much.

"It's not an option, Detective." Gordon adjusted his glasses.

"She's annoying," Renee shot back weakly.

"Yes, yes she is." Gordon couldn't dispute that in the least.

"I think I hate her." Renee knew she didn't stand a chance of ditching the fed, but she needed to feel she'd tried.

"You don't have to like her, Renee, to work with her."

She hated when he called her by her first name; he made her a person, not a subordinate. At that moment, he wasn't her boss, he was just another cop who needed her to pull her weight. She wanted to hate him for it, but there wasn't a decent cop in Gotham that could hate Jim Gordon, or say no to him.

"Fine." Renee tossed her hands. "I'll try to keep her from getting killed."


	4. Chapter 4: Count the Crazies

One Eyed Jacks

Chapter Four : Count the Crazies

"Satisfied, Detective Montoya?" Doctor Bartholomew Wolper's tone dripped condescension. He was a middle-aged man with more attitude than hair, who somehow managed to be lanky and paunchy at the same time. It was not an endearing combination. That he'd given up on the comb-over and embraced his bare dome was about the only thing to his credit, to Renee's thinking.

"Barely," Renee answered, never taking her eyes off the wild haired figure in the far corner of the isolation cell. He was softly mumbling to himself. Every now and again, he slipped into fits of giggling that sounded anything but pleasant, as if he were responding to some punchline that only he could hear, or maybe that only he could get.

"I assure you, Detective, that man is the Joker." Wolper stuffed his hands into his lab coat.

Renee had her doubts. Arkham had a history of… lapses… in its security. One of those lapses was recent enough to still be fresh in the public consciousness, as it had left the Commissioner's daughter with a hole where part of her spine had been. Seeing the Joker just a few feet away was disquieting; watching Velma study him with a detached, clinical eye… Now that was just creepy. She was like a kid with her nose pressed against the toy store window.

"Would it be possible to speak with him?" Velma asked, never taking her eyes off the Joker.

"Agent Dinkley, while I am compelled to submit to the jack-booted demands of the Gotham Police Department, this man is a patient, entitled to respect and comfort, just as any other," Wolper snapped the response like a whip. "He is here neither for your amusement nor for your edification."

While Renee glared at the doctor, Velma turned her disarming, cherubic smile on him. "Doctor Wolper," she replied, "please understand that while we trust your medical opinion on this matter, this patient has a proven record of defeating your best efforts to detain him. People are being murdered and there is every possibility that the Joker could be linked to those deaths. In the interest of public safety, we need to verify that this man is indeed the Joker, so that we can dismiss him as a suspect in those deaths." Velma's smile never wavered.

Wolper's face went sour and then cold. "I can assure you, Agent Dinkley," he spat out her title, "that this man is the Joker. My word should certainly be good enough."

"I certainly don't doubt your word, sir," Velma glanced back toward the figure in the shadows, "but we need confirmation."

"And just who's going to provide this confirmation, Agent Dinkley, you?" Wolper folded his arms across his narrow chest and looked down the sizeable bridge of his nose at her.

"Yes, actually," Velma replied.

Renee felt her jaw drop at Velma's statement.

"I spent a great deal of time in very close proximity to the Joker several years ago." Velma paused for a moment, then continued, "You could say that he is the reason I chose a career in law enforcement."

"If you have a past history with the patient, there's no way I'm granting you access to him." Wolper steeled his jaw. "I can't know that he'll be safe."

"You can't be serious!" Renee's brow furrowed in a mix of anger and disbelief, "You think that nutcase is the one who would be at risk?"

Velma raised her hand slightly, then took a measured and deliberate step into Wolper's personal space. The FBI agent's hand passed gracefully over her belt and when she was well inside Wolper's comfort zone she lifted the heavy FBI badge and thrust it into the doctor's face.

"Do you see what it says there, Doctor?" Velma's tone was calm and level. "Federal Bureau of Investigations. While I can't compel your cooperation in this matter without a court order, I am suggesting to you that it is in your best interest not to push that point. We simply don't have the time to waste. You can either have that man taken to an interview room, and allow me to speak with him…"

"Or?" Wolper sneered dismissively.

"Or," Velma lowered the badge and tucked it neatly onto her belt again, "while I'm on the phone arranging for that court order, I'll make a few other recommendations, and before you know it, nice men and women from all over the Federal government will develop a very special, and unhealthy, interest in everything from the quality of meat served in the cafeteria here to the nature of your expenses on every business trip you've taken since you graduated college." Velma smiled warmly, her expression distinctly at odds with the threat she'd just made.

Wolper hated her for it, but he arranged for the Joker to be brought into a visitor's room.

Interlude 

"You tell me something about yourself first." The Joker's head was lower and he stared at Velma. Despite his being tightly cinched inside a straightjacket, he was easily the most menacing presence Velma had ever encountered. There was no similarity between this man and the "Clown Prince of Crime" she'd met decades earlier.

"I think not." Velma sat sideways in her chair, nervously tracing her forefinger in a small circle on the top of the table that separated them. Renee had argued against allowing Velma to go into the room alone with the Joker. At the time Velma had insisted that she wouldn't be alone, there would be two orderlies as well. Now, seated opposite the man, she found little comfort in their presence; twenty would have been a good start.

"Oh come now, Special Agent Dinkley." The Joker leaned forward and rested his chin on the edge of the table. His hair hung down in his eyes. "Won't you humor a lonely soul?" The melodrama was heavy in his pouting frown.

"I'm not here to entertain you, Joker." Velma forced herself into a more confrontational pose, turning in her seat to face him, folding her hands together before her and staring at the loon. "I'm here solely to establish that you are indeed who you claim to be."

"I know why you're here, Special Agent Dinkley." The Joker's voice dropped and his features took a sinister cast as he lithely sat back and pulled himself straighter. "How's the mutt?" His voice was soulless and heavy.

Velma knitted her brow. She hadn't been prepared for that question and her confusion robbed the Joker's line of the sting it would have otherwise carried.

"Oh, and that delicious redhead you used to pal around with." Joker licked his blood-red lips with a pale pink tongue. "Girl talk!" he quipped, his voice rising an octave higher. He leaned toward her and asked in a conspiratorial tone, "Be honest, you tagged that, didnja!"

"Then you recall our previous meeting?" Velma tried to salvage the interview.

"You first." Joker's grin spread wider yet. The edges of his mouth tore slightly, allowing blood to seep slowly into the creases of his smile. "You and her ever hook up? Do the horizontal folk dance? Measure the drapes?"

"Measure the drapes?" Velma's face twisted into a confused frown. She'd lost yet more control.

"You know, the drapes." Joker waggled his eyebrows, expressing himself via the only range of motion he had available.

Velma placed her hands firmly on the table, willing herself to focus on the matter at hand. "Do you recall our previous meeting?"

"You... first." Joker jerked his shoulders from side to side with each syllable.

Velma bit her lower lip, stared at the madman for a long moment, and then surrendered. "No, I never even admitted how I felt about her."

"Too bad." Joker's face twisted into a mask of pity and commiseration. "Yes."

"Yes?" Velma questioned.

"Nope, my turn!" Joker giggled, rocking in his chair. "How's the Doobie Gillis wanna-be?"

Velma seethed for a moment. "He's well, last I heard."

"So you've lost touch?" Joker questioned.

"You first," Velma smiled, catching the clown in his own game.

"Well played!" Joker flapped his arms inside the straightjacket as if to applaud. "Yes, I remember you, and the rest of your pesky friends. Your nonsense, and Cobblepot's incompetence kept me from putting the Bat in the ground." Joker's voice dropped from a lilt to a snarl as he spat out the answer.

"We don't talk as often as we used to, none of us." Velma hesitated for a moment, then baited her trap. "Not since Freddie… Well, not for a long time."

"Freddie, the fruit in the ascot?" Joker took the bait.

"My turn." Velma smiled to herself.

"No fair! Foul! Flag on the play! Offside! Roughing the passer! I demand a video replay!" The clown ranted.

Velma stood confidently, adjusted her jacket and stepped back from the table as the Joker continued his tantrum.

"Where do you think you're going!" the clown demanded. "We aren't done here!"

"I'm afraid we are." She smiled her cherubic smile and left the room.

Interlude 

"You met the Batman?" Renee cradled a cup of warm tea in both hands, and peered over it at Velma. They'd taken a table next to the window at Ronnebaum's, a cop diner down the street from the precinct house. The smell of the warm tea was comforting in contrast with the bleak weather settling in over the city.

"Twice, actually," Velma said after a swallow of tea. She sat the heavy porcelain cup aside.

"Twice?" Renee stared in slack-jawed disbelief.

"The Boy Wonder, too," Velma smiled proudly.

"Of course, why not?" Renee shook her head. She was in the presence of a rare person. "You know that you'd be royalty in some corners of this city?"

"Hardly," Velma chuckled.

"Seriously," Renee set her cup down.

"It's nothing, really. I was in college. Several friends and I were on an extended road trip, seeing the country; solving crimes. We fancied ourselves detectives; great sleuths on the trail of nefarious villains." Velma's voice lilted high with affected drama. "We traveled from one end of the country to the other. We even caught a few criminals; smugglers, crooked land developers, that sort of thing." Velma swept her spoon through the vegetable soup before her as she spoke.

"And?"

"We were driving through New Jersey, on our way to a mystery convention. We were passing through Gotham, Lynntown, actually, when our van broke down." Velma smiled as her thoughts drifted back to a different time.

"That's very interesting," Renee smiled. "But how'd you meet the Bat?"

"We ended up in the middle of a counterfeiting ring. The Joker and Oswald Cobblepot were-"

"Wait! Are you telling me that you've met both Joker and Penguin?"

Velma, nodded, lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips, then continued after she'd swallowed it. "Yeah, it was before the Joker went so... dark, and the Batman, too, for that matter. Joker's pathology hadn't progressed to its current level. He was still engaging in themed crimes; stealing the symbols of the zodiac, collections of harlequin masks, that sort of thing. His crimes were as much for the sick humor of it as anything else."

"And you helped the Bat bring him in?"

"That's probably more credit than we deserve." Velma stirred her soup absently as she spoke. "We actually got in the way more than we helped. Batman and Robin would have been better off without a bunch of pesky kids and a dog under foot. Enough about me." She pushed the soup bowl aside and took up her cup of tea, "How do your parents feel about their daughter the detective?"

"Eh," Renee shrugged, rolled her eyes and shook her head. "They could be happier."

"They expected grandchildren by now, I'm sure?" Velma questioned, the soft smile never fading.

"Pardon?" Renee felt her face flush.

"Your parents. I bet they expected grandchildren by now. But it's hard enough just to have a relationship when you're on the job, let alone worry about a family."

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, they did."

Velma's question was clear in her eyes.

"They've given up on it." Renee didn't see any reason to say more.

"With Joker locked away," Velma steered the conversation back to work, "that leaves only Two-Face."

"Assuming your theory holds water." Renee sipped her tea.

"Mary Charles Union 4, Dispatch." Renee's radio, lying forgotten at the edge of the table, squawked to life.

Frowning, Renee picked it up, hit a button and replied, "This is Mary Charles Union 4, go ahead Dispatch."

"10-87, Detective Bullock, 1341 West Dixon Drive; 10-71; code 960," the voice scratched.

"Roger, Dispatch, Mary Charles Union 4, 10-49," Renee responded, then slipped the radio onto her belt.

"Care to translate?" Velma smiled.

"Bullock wants us to meet him. There's been another shooting." Renee stood. Velma followed her lead. "Code 960 means a freak case. Bullock must think it fits our shooter." Renee took her coat from the back of her chair and made to put it on. "Can I drop you somewhere?"

"And miss the scene of the crime?" Velma adjusted her hair over the collar of her jacket. "No way!"

"It could be a long night." Renee tightened the belt at the waist of her coat.

"I'll be fine." Velma smiled as she reached out to pluck a speck of lint from off of Renee's dark wool jacket. "After you."


	5. Chapter 5: Flip a Coin

One Eyed Jacks

Chapter Five: Flip a Coin

If Hell had a main street, it probably looked a lot like Park Row; eight blocks of squandered possibilities and mortgaged tomorrows. It cut through the heart of Old Gotham like a seeping knife wound, septic with despair. Of all the dark and forgotten places in Gotham, Park Row was the worst. Ask most folks for directions and they wouldn't even recognize the name; tell them Crime Alley, on the other hand, and they'd know right where it was, though they'd have no idea why you'd want to go there.

Renee closed the car door behind her, squinting against the rain to take in the scene outside Number 37 Park Row; a dilapidated apartment building that should have been torn down before she'd even been born. Bullock stood on the landing at the top of the short flight of stairs that led from the sidewalk to the front door. He managed to look equal parts apathetic and pissed off.

"Lovely neighborhood," Velma quipped as she came around the car, stopping short of the police tape, and just a half-step from Renee.

"Welcome to Gotham." Renee ducked under the tape and held it up as Velma followed

"Date night?" Bullock spat, as he watched the duo climb the broken concrete steps.

"Shut up, Harvey." Renee glared as she reached the landing.

Bullock smirked and chocked back a chuckle, as he slid the stub of his cigar from one side of his thin lips to the other.

"What have we got?" Renee asked, looking over the threshold and into the dimly light hallway, dark from decades of cigarette smoke and inattention.

"Who's she?" Bullock took the cigar from his mouth and stabbed at Velma with it, before slipping it back into its well-calloused place at the corner of his grin.

"Special Agent Velma Dinkley, Lieutenant Harvey Bullock. Harvey, Velma." Renee hashed out the introductions, "Now, what have we got?"

Bullock stuck a hammy hand into his trenchcoat pocket and pulled out a pair of brown paper envelopes marked evidence.

"Let me guess…" Renee took one and carefully opened it; she frowned and offered the envelope to Velma.

"One eyed jacks, just like the last two." Bullock confirmed.

Velma closed the envelope and handed it back to Renee. Harvey pushed the other into Renee's hands.

"Who's the vic?" Renee shuffled the envelopes neatly in her hand as Harvey pulled his notebook out of his other pocket.

"Mr. Robert Mayfair, two-time loser; did a couple of stretches in Blackgate over the last twenty years." He returned the pad to his pocket. "Seems Robbie has a thing for the ladies, but he's not real clear on the concept of mutual attraction. Good riddance, you ask me. He dodged his third strike less than three months ago; some chucklehead at the Sixth screwed up the chain of custody on the evidence and he walked."

"Witnesses?" Renee asked.

"Nobody saw nothin'; nobody heard nothin'."

Renee stepped into the apartment building and followed the trail of activity up three flights of stairs to the third door on the right-hand side of the hallway. Bullock puffed along behind her, Velma trailing in their combined wake.

The door to apartment 3F was standing wide open. Robert Mayfair's corpse lay just inside, naked except for a pair of yellow-grey boxers that looked three weeks late for an appointment with the laundry. The pair of holes in his chest, and the powder burns that pockmarked the skin around them both, told her that he'd been shot at close range. The size of the entry wounds told her that the murder instrument had been a large caliber weapon. The absence of a smaller puncture wound in his abdomen told her that the medical examiner hadn't made it yet; which meant she'd have to endure the good doctor's work again.

"Detective Montoya." Renee turned toward the door as Harvey gestured expansively toward the body. "Allow me to introduce Robert Mayfair. You'll excuse him if he doesn't stand up." Bullock smirked and adjusted the brim of his hat. "And with that, I'll let you two get better acquainted." Bullock chuckled and spun on his heel in the doorway, almost bowling Agent Dinkley over as he hummed his way back down the hall.

Velma slipped into the room to stand behind Renee; her attention drifting to the breakfront next to the front door. She casually inventoried the debris of Robert Mayfair's life.

Renee's gaze swept from the body to the small, three-room apartment. It was neat, tidy, and far cleaner than you'd expect, given the neighborhood and the sort of people who called a Park Row address home. But then disreputable, even criminal, didn't mean slob. Renee moved from the corpse to the small kitchenette tucked in one corner of the main room. The garbage can had a liner in it, along with a few wrappers and a couple of beer cans. The dishes in the sink -two plates, two glasses, and an assortment of silverware- had been rinsed before being left for later. The victim had been a man who liked things in order.

Velma was quietly inventorying the stack of letters by the front door, when Renee left the kitchen and headed for the bedroom; the door of which was standing open. The bedroom was mostly neat, but there were some glaring exceptions the closet door was ajar, a couple of shirts –still on their hangers- lay on the floor, and the bedclothes were a tangled knot.

"What's wrong with this picture?" Renee asked absently, as she moved around the bed.

"Someone left here in a hurry," Velma offered, stepping into the room. A uniformed office, Sergeant Sgandurra, followed her, but stopped in the doorway, notepad in hand.

"I think we just caught a break," Renee stated flatly, reaching into her inside pocket to pull out a laser pointer. "Get the photographer," she instructed the uniform.

Velma's eyes sought out the evidence Renee was indicating. The red dot of the laser pointer fell onto a gold foil condom wrapper (ribbed for her pleasure), lying atop a chaotic assortment of men's clothing; shirts, sweaters, pants, socks... but strangely, no underwear.

"When you look at this mess and add it to the dishes in the sink, I don't think it's a stretch to assume our victim had company," Renee said.

Velma took a pencil from her pocket and began slowly unknotting the sheets as the crime scene photographer entered the bedroom. Sgandurra held his position and watched intently. She only had to peel back a few folds to find what she was looking for.

"I'd say you're on the right track." Velma looked from the freshly-used condom back to Renee. The photographer snapped a few frames of the prophylactic.

"OK, Special Agent Dinkley." Although Renee's choice of words was formal, her tone was one of familiar collaboration. "How'd it play out?"

Velma straightened up crouching over the bedding, and slowly surveyed the room. The photographer carefully stepped clear of her field of vision.

"Mayfair and our mystery guest have dinner, then, at some point retire to the bedroom for dessert. Sometime after the festivities, but before Mayfair can… dispose of the transaction…" She gestured absently to the condom, "There's a knock on the door." Velma's gaze drifted away, as if she were watching the events.

"The victim gets up," Renee took over the narration. "He puts on his boxers and goes to the door."

"He closes the bedroom door on the way," Velma interjected.

"Why?" The Sgandurra broke his silence.

"Good question," Renee agreed.

"If the door had been open, there is every reason to believe that our shooter would have seen the witness. We'd have a dead body rather than a messy closet." Velma answered, walking to the open closet with its scattered contents.

"With the door closed," Velma continued, "Our witness hears voices, maybe just gun shots. At some point she flees to the closet and hides."

"First place the shooter will check when he sees her clothing on bedroom floor, if he comes in," the photographer added.

"True. Maybe she takes them with her, maybe not... We'll assume she panics and leaves them on the floor," Velma answered, walking to the "guest's side of the bed. "Our shooter doesn't stay long; he doesn't even close the front door; he doesn't enter the apartment, and he certainly doesn't enter the bedroom," Velma continued. "So our guest hides in the closet until she's sure that it's safe."

"Till it's been quiet for a long time." Sgandurra added.

"Till she's certain that there's no one else in the apartment." Renee continued.

Velma finished the scene, "Then she rushes out, knocking clothes off the bar as she does, she dresses and leaves in a hurry."

"Who called this in?" Renee asked the uniform.

Flipping back a few pages in his notes, the officer answered, "Anonymous 911 call; number traces to a pay phone, two blocks down."

"She runs out, gets her wits about her, and then... what? Maybe starts feeling bad about leaving the victim on the floor?" Renee suggested.

"We've got a potential witness out there somewhere." Velma smiled.

Interlude 

It was a quarter past midnight when Gotham PD kicked in the doors of the Janus Imports warehouse on the south docks. A tip from one of Bullock's confidential informants told them that they'd find Harvey Dent and his latest collection of associates holed up there. Any doubts Renee might have had about the source's information went up in a cordite haze along with two SWAT officers who tripped one of Dent's party favors. They'd missed seeing the tripwire; the IED it was attached to didn't miss anything. The stench of shredded bowel told her at least one of them was hurt badly.

"Officers down, repeat, officers down; Swanson Street entrance. I need back up and EMS, now!" Renee shouted into the walkie-talkie, her back pressed against the wall of the darkened hallway.

Velma was three steps behind her, flashlight in one hand, Bureau-issue pistol in the other. Renee studied the darkness before them. Somewhere ahead, they could hear the sound of automatic weapons firing as one of the other entry teams fought with Two-Face or his men. Renee glanced to Velma and moved down the hall to kneel before the fallen SWAT cops.

"Hold tight, help's coming," she said to the nearest one. He didn't reply. She passed her flashlight over his face, jerking the light away when she realized that his face wasn't where it belonged. Her stomach leapt into her throat and she pressed the back of her hand to her lips in an effort to kick her dinner back down where it belonged.

"Dent's on the move, headed for the south side of the building," a voice scratched over the radio.

"Your team's closest, Montoya," Jim Gordon added.

"Get the son-of-a-bitch!" the second SWAT cop growled through tightly-clenched teeth.

Renee glanced at Velma. Then, nodding to the SWAT cop, she stood and moved down the hall. Behind her, Velma said something soft and reassuring to the injured officer before falling into step behind the detective. Together, they crept forward into the darkness, until the hallway opened into a series of offices. They fell into a cautious rhythm, moving from door to door. The darkness ahead of them sheltered a psychopath more than willing to kill them if he got the chance.

Renee pushed open the door to a long-forgotten cafeteria and slid inside, her back to the wall, her weapon at the ready, and her flashlight sweeping in rhythm with the muzzle of the weapon. The room was empty, cavernous compared to the offices they had been searching. Outside, the patrol cars had closed in on the building; their red and blue strobes painting the ceiling in sharp hues cast through high windows; the sharp contrast of the staccato of light weakening Renee's depth perception. The kitchen area to her left and the double doors on the opposite wall were black caves that led deeper into the building. The doors were ajar; beyond them was a wide hallway. Dent was likely headed down that hallway, if he hadn't already passed through it. A quick glance to Velma, and Renee moved deeper into the cafeteria.

She swept a wide arc through the room, her weapon and flashlight slicing the darkness of the kitchen as she made her way toward the opposite hallway. She could hear her heartbeat and taste the sweat that was rolling down her cheeks. She watched the darkness the way a small child might have fixated on the darkness under her bed. She wished she could take a running leap and clear that expanse, the same way she'd leapt into her covers before the 'monster' could snatch her by her bare ankle and draw her under the bed. She remembered that monster all too well; it was in the kitchen now. Renee's attention was fixed on the kitchen entry, and on the darkness beyond. The rest of the room didn't exist for her. She never saw the movement in the dark corner when the shadow rose up from behind a broken table.

"Behind you!" Velma screamed.

Renee turned to face Dent just as the bullet slammed into her right shoulder with the force of a sledgehammer. The impact spun her toward Velma, and she watched as the Fed squeezed off three quick shots, the muzzle flashes painting her determined expression in bright yellow seconds. Renee's knees buckled and she collapsed backwards. There was a sharp groan as she hit the floor; it felt distant and remote and she wasn't sure if it had come from her or not. In the violence of the moment, Renee's head snapped back and struck the faded tile violently. There was a responding shot from the dark corner. Velma's final blasts were masked by the bright light that danced through Renee's eyes as she fought to maintain consciousness.

Renee was flat on her back in the dark cafeteria, when she felt the radio being pulled from her belt. Velma's voice was a distant sound, like someone speaking across a gymnasium. Renee tried to understand what she was saying, straining to make out the words. The darkness that closed in around her had other ideas. She smelled lavender.

Interlude 

A dull ache spread slowly through her dreams, the fading wake of the bullet that had punched through her ballistic vest and torn a shallow gash across her shoulder. It was nothing as bullet wounds went; a few inches to the left she'd have been another Gotham statistic. She felt the rising sun on her face; saw its shadow through her closed eyes.

The air was cool and carried the familiar scent of her home; the faint fragrance of the potpourri Daria had loved. Her fingertips drifted lazily across the smooth curve of a naked stomach chiseled flat by hours in the gym; a stomach that she slowly recognized wasn't her own. She pulled her hand toward her and felt the warmth against her chest pulled tight, drawn close; the warmth of a naked body, all soft curves and tight muscles. Lavender, she smelled lavender. Daria never wore lavender.

She didn't open her eyes. If she had then she would have been forced to deal with the questions that always reared their heads the morning after. How she and Velma had ended up in bed together didn't matter, not yet. It would soon, she was certain, but not yet. The risk of death could be a powerful aphrodisiac. The moment in her doorway, when Velma had brought her home from the emergency room, seemed a lifetime away. The rush of hands and desperate mouths seeking a connection that mattered at least for the moment... She pushed the thoughts away. She'd worry about the repercussions later. For now, she pressed her eyes closed tightly and pulled the other woman closer still. For now, she wasn't alone.


	6. Chapter 6: Pivot

One Eyed Jacks

Chapter Six: Pivot

Harvey Dent had been cooling his heels in the city lock-up for nearly 48 hours, when Renee finally got the OK to pay him a visit. Captain Sawyer had used her injury as an excuse for the first twelve, insisting that she had no business coming back to work so soon. After that, it had been the shooting itself that had slowed things down. It had never crossed her mind to return the favor; tuning Dent up as pay back for the bullet he'd tried to put in her. But the captain couldn't be to careful; she wouldn't have been the first cop to take advantage of a prisoner's situation. The captain had to protect the case.

Velma had already taken her crack at the former Gotham district attorney, so Renee had no trouble ditching her when she finally made it onto the approved visitor list. The truth was, she'd done a good job of ditching the Fed since the morning after… Since the morning after the shooting. Her answering machine was taunting her; the red message light reminding her that she'd have to face the fallout of that night sooner or later.

Her visit with Dent hadn't been productive. He'd waived his right to counsel early on, knowing full well that he was better than any public defender he might catch. She had pitched the facts of her case; Dent found them intriguing-–even offered his legal advice on how to proceed-but had maintained his innocence of any involvement in any of the three murders; claiming that he'd been 'on sabbatical' out of state. He talked, but he didn't say anything; the conversation was a self-consuming maze of redirection and distraction, and in the end Renee, wouldn't have been sure anyone had been shot if it hadn't been for the sling she was carrying her right arm in.

The whole interview left Renee in a sour mood as she stepped out of the elevator and into the basement level of the city parking garage. Her strides were long and agitated as she made for her car. She was just a few feet from it when the lights on the entire floor went out. She froze, her hand on her weapon out of instinct, the pain in her shoulder ripping a stifled yelp from her throat.

"Relax, Detective Montoya," the voice came from the darkness, somewhere near her car. It was flat, heavy, and carried a hint of menace. She'd heard it before, but only once.

"To what do I owe the honor?" She asked, a little more contemptuously than she'd intended.

"Dent's not your man; you're wasting your time with him," the voice continued.

"You got evidence?" Renee thought she could see movement in the shadows, a form somehow darker than the surrounding blackness.

"An associate of mine tells me Dent was in Star City until just a few days ago."

"The archer?"

"The point is, Dent couldn't have killed Jacks or Pervenesch. You're just supposed to think he did."

"I suppose you know who did, then?"

"I don't have a name, but I can tell you where to look."

"So, where?"

"You're not going to like it. Neither is Gordon."

"Why?" Renee asked, but she was afraid she already knew. As cryptic as the Dark Knight was trying to be, there was only one reason Commissioner Gordon wouldn't be happy with a collar on a multiple murderer.

"I left you something on the front seat of your car; be careful who you trust with it."

"Are you saying the shooter is a cop?" Renee asked.

Silence.

A half second later, the lights flickered back to life. Renee found herself alone in the dark concrete cavern.

She pushed her recent encounter aside and hurried to her car, opened the door and got in. A neatly-folded set of papers lay on the passenger seat. When she picked them up, something heavy fell free and landed in the seat with a thud. Twisting in her seat, she found the brown paper envelope. Turning on the dome light, she read the neatly-printed words, "BALLISTIC EVIDENCE, .458 CALIBRE ROUND, PERVENESCH CRIME SCENE".

She tossed the envelope onto the dashboard and unfolded the papers. Three pages, nothing more, but three pages that threw her case in a whole new direction.

Interlude 

"Where did you get these?" Jim Gordon gingerly placed the papers on the desk in front of him.

He was seated at his desk, while Renee, Velma and Maggie Sawyer were crowded into the space opposite him. They represented the only people in the entire city whom Renee was willing to trust with the evidence she had. Though the unsettled air between herself and Velma had set Captain Sawyer on edge the minute they had entered her office.

"A mutual friend," Renee answered. Gordon nodded. Velma's eyes widened. "OK, so I've met him once or twice myself," Renee confessed. It wouldn't be the last thing she would confess to the Fed.

"And you've verified them?" Gordon asked, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, sir," Maggie answered. "Three different ways. There's no doubt: our shooter is a cop.

"We can match the ballistics on at least one of the weapons used at all three crime scenes to one of a set of custom-made .458 caliber pistols we confiscated from Harvey Dent, three years ago," Sawyer explained.

"Weapons that were supposedly being held in the evidence locker until the appeal window for the related crimes closed," Renee added.


	7. Chapter 7: Sweatin' the Oldies

One Eyed Jacks

**Chapter Seven: Sweatin' the Oldies**

"Where do you think you get something like this made?" Velma asked as she studied the property file. The two of them hadn't spoken in any meaningful way since before the Bat had delivered the evidence.

Velma was walking in Renee's wake, taking extra steps to keep up with Renee's longer strides as they moved through the crowded halls on their way to the property room. Unlike the MCU squad room, the turmoil on the second floor of police headquarters would have looked familiar to anyone whose exposure to the police was limited to primetime television.

"Hard to say, but with enough money you can get anything in Gotham," Renee answered absently as she dodged the chaos in the hall. She hadn't looked directly at Velma since before they'd woken up together.

Room 208, the Central Property Control Office, was a left turn off the main stairs, past a trio of heavy oak benches populated by witnesses and suspects, and pair of restrooms that were known to be in need of a good fumigation. Some uniformed officers led cuffed suspects from holding to processing, while others banged out reports on out-of-date computers, using little more than index fingers and persistence.

"The caliber in itself is an oddity," Velma's face stayed buried in the file; trusting Renee's lead.

"It's a rifle cartridge, elephant gun, actually." Renee cut her off as she pushed through the heavy steel door to the service foyer of the property room.

The sergeant behind the heavy glass window barely looked up when the two women entered the office.

"Property voucher," Renee said flatly as she pushed the stack of forms through the gap at the bottom of the glass divider.

The sergeant gave the forms a passing inspection that almost passed for devotion to his job. Then he stood up without a word, and vanished into the back of the room.

"Each weapon is a mirror of the other," Velma continued. "One even has counter-clockwise lands and grooves." Velma's eyebrow shot up as she finished the notes. "And the twist rate is extreme."

"That's how the Bat identified the slug." Renee drummed her fingers on the window counter, straining to see into the back of the property room. She could just barely make out the sergeant, as he moved through the racks. "Two-face had the pair of them on him when we collared him."

"Gonna need a signature," the sergeant said as he dropped the evidence box onto the pass-through. He stuffed a receipt under the divider and shoved it to Renee. She scratched her name on the marked lines and shoved it back.

The sergeant countersigned, tore off a copy, slapped it on the evidence box and jammed his thumb against the security button. The sound of an electric buzzer signaled to Renee to lift the door on her side of the pass-through and drag the box out. She quickly opened the lid and looked inside. A matched pair of heavy pistols lay before her. She felt her shoulders drop slightly.

"Jinkies," Velma's voice was low and close, as she peered over Renee's shoulder at the contents of the evidence box.

"Let's get these upstairs." Renee closed the box and lifted it clear of the pass-through, pivoted on her heel and headed for the door.

Interlude

The pair of chromed pistols was placed neatly on top of the lid of the evidence box at the center of the conference room where Renee had set up her research. Their presence mocked the assembled officers, who stared at them in silence for an uncomfortable moment.

"So…" Maggie Sawyer, leaned against the door the interview room, hands on her hips. "How does a weapon that's locked in the property room kill three people?"

"Either Batman was wrong," Jim Gordon, seated to Velma's right, took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose, "or we have a problem in the property office."

"So how would it work?" Renee asked, almost rhetorically. She leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest to close herself to the world, or at least to Velma.

"Simple," Velma spoke up, her gaze panning over everyone else in the room, with the exception of Renee. "Remove the weapon from the property office, carry out the murder, and then return it-not only before it's missed, but before the crime's even been reported."

"That'd mean two people," Maggie said.

"Wonderful," Gordon grumbled.

Renee pushed away from the wall, moved to the table, and began sifting through the stacks of documents. The log book she wanted was near the top of the pile. She flipped through it, back to front, until she found the start of the entries she wanted. "The same clerk was on duty when all three crimes took place…"

Gordon gave Renee an impatient look. "Who?"

Renee jumped slightly as she lifted her eyes from the log. "Sorry, Commissioner. It's Sergeant Anthony Hollywood."

"Seriously?" Velma questioned.

Renee shrugged.

"Find out when Sergeant Hollywood is on shift next, and arrange to have him brought upstairs." Gordon said flatly as he stood up from the table.

"On it." Maggie pushed off from the door just as someone knocked on it from outside. The door opened almost as quickly as she stepped clear.

Bullock stuck his massive head into the doorway, "Dysart over at the 4th just called; they got a dame sitting in an interview room could be your witness on the Mayfair shooting."

"Take Dinkley and go see her," Gordon shot to Renee as he cast the door open wide and breezed past Bullock into the squad room.

"Commissioner Gordon." Velma stood, her hands absently adjusting her jacket.

Gordon stopped in the doorway and turned on his heel. Renee, arms crossed and head down, watched Velma through her bangs.

"Since these are no longer D.P.S-related crimes, I should report back to Quantico." Velma kept her attention focused on the Commissioner.

"I can appreciate that, Agent Dinkley, but as it stands, the only people I can trust with this are right here in this room," Gordon replied.

"I understand, but my assignment here was…"

"I need you on this, Agent Dinkley. When I get back to my office, I'll need to make a call. Will I be thanking the special agent in charge for your assistance, or requesting he direct you to provide it?"

"I'll help however I can, Commissioner." Velma's face melted into the familiar smile.

Interlude

Renee knocked-a perfunctory gesture-and quickly opened the door to the claustrophobic interview room off the homicide squad at the 4th precinct. The woman seated at the table was a shabby display of femininity past its prime. The dark circles under her eyes hinted to more than just sleepless nights. And her thinning hair-of indistinguishable color-refused her every effort to tame it. Her hands were knotted before her in an effort to hide their tremors. She wore desperation as dark and heavy as the eyeliner smeared about her pale blue eyes. The file said her name was Karen Sweets, but she could have been anyone from Old Gotham.

"Ms. Sweets," Renee began, tossing the thin file she'd been provided by the watch sergeant onto the table between them, "I'm Detective Montoya, Gotham PD; this is Special Agent Velma Dinkley, FBI." Renee sat opposite Sweets. Velma stood a half pace back, her hands at her sides.

"FBI?" Karen's sudden concern was evident on her face.

Renee ignored the question and opened the file, skimming it as if she hadn't read it thoroughly before entering the room. "Tell me about Robert Mayfair."

"I don't know who that is." Karen dug her fingernails into her palms and stared at the table.

"It says here, that we have evidence that shows you at 62 Park Row at the time a 911 call was placed earlier this week." Renee looked up from the file for the first time. "The cashier at the Stop-N-Go remembered you, the security tape shows you making a purchase –a pack of Morleys and a 40 of Schlatz Malt Liquor – you used the change from the purchase in the phone booth at the curb outside. The clerk remembered that you dropped the change three times. You do know that you can call 911 for free, right?"

Karen Sweets stared at her hands in silence.

"We think that the person who made that call did so because they were sorry that they'd left the scene. We don't think they were the shooter, but we're hoping that they might have been a witness." Renee laced her fingers together atop the file and watched Karen carefully.

Karen's lower lip trembled slightly, and a tear worked its way free to slip down her right cheek.

"You were with Mayfair when he was killed, weren't you?" Renee asked softly.

Karen nodded and pried her hands apart. She wiped the tear away with the flat of her palm, smearing her heavy make-up further.

"Tell me about Robert Mayfair," Renee repeated.

"Robbie treated me nice." Karen's voice was almost a whisper.

"You were there when he was killed, weren't you?" Renee asked as she passed a small packet of Kleenex to the witness.

Karen nodded as she sniffled and fumbled with the Kleenex.

"What happened?" Renee took the Kleenex, opened it, and handed it back to the shaking Karen.

"We were in the bedroom," she wiped her eyes with a Kleenex and sputtered through a sob, " we'd… we'd just… been together." She balled the tissue paper in her hand and tried to hide the tremors again. "Someone started pounding on the door."

"Do you know who it was?" Renee asked.

"No."

"What happened then?"

"Robbie got out of bed; he told me to hide, to stay away from the door."

"Did he say why?" Velma asked, stepping into the dim light.

Karen shook her head. "No, I just thought that he was, you know, ashamed to be seen with me."

"I doubt that was it," Renee reassured her.

"I was in the corner of his room when he opened the apartment door. He said something. '_What do you want,_' or _'What are you doing'_. I'm not sure. " Karen continued. "Then they shot him, and I hid in the closet."

"Did you see or hear anything else?" Velma asked.

Karen shook her head, pulled another Kleenex free and sobbed into it.

Interlude

Renee unlocked the driver's side door the department-issue sedan and started to open it. Her fingertips had barely touched the handle when she felt Velma's touch lightly on her wrist. Renee looked up to find the fed practically in her face in the tight space between the cars. She looked around the garage nervously; she was as out as she cared to be.

"Talk to me." Velma spoke softly.

"Do we have to do this here?"

"If not here, then where?"

The scent of lavender hung heavily in the air between them. Renee leaned forward instinctively. Velma's hand skimmed up Renee's arm and traced the line of her shoulder to the open collar of her short; nimble fingers toyed at the unused button.

"I don't know if I'm ready for this." Renee felt her voice crack and she avoided Velma's deep brown eyes for fear of falling into them.

"Let's get something straight." Velma's voice stayed low and gentle but her tone was clear; she meant to be heard. "_This_", Velma's hand moved to cup Renee's jaw line, her thumb lightly caressing the detective's cheek. "_This_, just happened."

Velma moved closer, she brushed Renee's full lips lightly then pulled away slightly; her hand fell from Renee's face and slid down her arm. Renee captured it with her own. Emotion flashed across Renee's face; the warmth of the blush crept across her cheeks.

Velma squeezed Renee's hand and spoke softly, "I don't regret it. It doesn't have to mean anything. It doesn't have to happen again. If it does, well…" She stepped closer, and Renee felt her breath on her cheek and lavender filled her world. "If it does, then I'm good with that, too." Velma's cheek rested lightly against Renee's.

"It was…" Renee unconsciously nuzzled Velma's soft brown mane as she looked for the right words. It was too soon... the heat of the moment... a mistake... She ran each of those ideas through her head. She settled on, "It was nice." Her gaze fell to the stained concrete floor.

"It was nice?" Velma stepped closer. She tenderly took Renee's face in her hands.

Renee's hands fell to Velma's waist, sliding around to catch her and draw her closer. Velma's lips met hers. The kiss was tentative at first, Velma's mouth responding softly but with increasing need. Renee held Velma tightly and melted into the warmth of the full length of the other woman's body pressed against her. Lavender. Renee felt the rest of her body responding to Velma's passion and reluctantly pulled away, breathless. She held Velma's hand tightly.

"We need to go." Renee managed.

Velma nodded.

"Later." Renee said with a heated look.

"Promises are cheap, detective." Velma smiled and went around the car.


	8. Chapter 8: Dead End Streets

_**One Eyed Jacks**_

"_With deepest gratitude and appreciation to Ms. Ellen, who got me through this thing."_

Chapter Seven: Dead End Streets

"Get anywhere with the witness?" Maggie Sawyer called, as Renee and Velma entered the MCU squad room.

"Nowhere; She didn't see anything, she didn't hear anything," Renee replied, as she shrugged out of her coat on her way to her desk. Velma was close behind, having claimed the desk opposite Renee's for the duration.

Bullock was leaning against the water cooler, a mostly empty paper cup in one hand. "Hollywood's in Interview Two; the Commish said to wait for you. Guess you're making points in life."

"What do we know?" Velma asked, draping her coat over the back of the desk chair.

"Hollywood's a decorated officer; the Commish pinned the last one on him his'self." Bullock crushed the cup and dropped it into the garbage.

"Three commendations for valor, injured in the line of duty—that last bit was what landed him in the property room." Maggie recited the highlights.

"He took a bullet in the brain, standing off against a bunch of Burnleytown bangers, back when the Bat got all the gangs riled up and trigger-happy," Bullock sniped as he crossed the room.

"I remember him." Renee's eyes narrowed as she pictured his face. "Wears an eye patch, right?"

"That's the one." Maggie sat on the edge of the desk across the aisle from Renee. "The bullet cost him the sight in his left eye."

"He caught that bullet pulling a wounded officer out of the line of fire," Bullock grumbled.

"Any connection to the victims?" Renee ignored the comment, pushed the sleeves of her sweater up to her elbows, and grabbed her coffee cup from amid the clutter on her desk.

"None that we can see." Maggie crossed her arms and frowned.

"Where's Hollywood?" James Gordon barked as he burst into the squad room.

"Interview Two," Maggie responded, rising to her feet out of respect.

"Sawyer, Montoya, you're with me. Bullock, I want you and Dinkley in observation." Gordon shook free of his overcoat and barely slowed down enough to haphazardly land it on the coat hook by the door. He was across the floor and opening the door to the interview room almost before any of them could react. Renee cast the coffee pot a longing look as she sat her cup back on her desk, and moved to keep up with Captain Sawyer.

"Commission Gordon!" Sergeant Anthony Hollywood stood as Gordon entered the room. He was in uniform, and looked every inch the professional. He'd surrendered his weapon when he'd been brought into the squad room; an empty holster was testament to the situation in which he found himself. "What's this about, sir?"

"Someone's committed three murders in my town, Sergeant." Gordon leaned against the table, his palms on the edge, his feet apart and his gaze fixed on Hollywood.

Renee moved past the commissioner and into the far corner opposite Hollywood. Maggie closed the door and stood near it.

"What's that got to do with me, Commissioner?" Hollywood sat down slowly.

"They're using a weapon that's supposed to be locked up in my property room, Sergeant." Gordon's cards hit the table abruptly. He studied Hollywood for any tell, any hint of reaction, any sign of guilt, as he waited to hear what the officer had to say.

Hollywood's gaze jerked up from the table and focused squarely on Gordon. "And you like me for it?"

"No, you've got an airtight alibi for the killings themselves: you were on duty at the time. But someone put evidence on the street, and I'm starting my investigation into that with you." Gordon held the sergeant's gaze.

"Why me?" Hollywood's eye narrowed.

"We found the murder weapon in the property room, exactly where it belonged. That means that somehow, our shooter got the weapon out of evidence, used it to kill three people, and then put it back-maybe once, maybe after each killing."

"I'm on shift, so I must be loaning evidence out to murderers. That pretty much it?" Hollywood asked, leaning back in his chair almost casually.

Gordon nodded slowly.

"That's a pretty big leap, Commissioner. Who's to say that it didn't leave and come back on a different shift? Hell, who's to say that it was even a cop that took it out of the lock-up? What, with all the freaks out there, I mean."

"A freak. Is that your story?" Renee asked.

"I ain't got a story, just thoughts is all." Hollywood replied. "You're looking at a cop for your shooter and ignoring the obvious."

"Obvious?" Gordon snapped.

"It didn't have to be a cop that took the weapon is all I'm saying; not in a world where there's freaks that can walk through walls, turn invisible or control someone's mind. Hell, even if you are looking for a cop, what's to say the poor sap even knows that he did something?"

"You know, it's interesting." Renee stepped closer to the table. "We were looking at a freak angle from the start. Our shooter wanted us looking at freaks. And now, here you are, singing a familiar song."

"Look, as much as I'd like to trade meaningful glances with the detective here, I want my PBA rep." Hollywood straightened in his chair and folded his hands on the table in front of him.

"Alright, we'll do it your way then." Gordon stood and stepped back.

Maggie opened the door and left the room. Gordon motioned for Renee to follow her.

As soon as the door closed again behind the two women, Gordon stared down at Hollywood. "Hear me good, Sergeant. If you're involved, this is your last chance to salvage your pension. You come clean now, and I'll see to it your family collects, out of respect for who you were. But if you fight this and I find out that you're dirty, I'll burn you to the ground."

"I want my PBA rep." Hollywood spoke the words slowly, but choppily.

Gordon turned on his heel and left the room. The door closed with thunderous finality.

Interlude

"Tell me you've got more than this." Gilbert Lieberman looked at James Gordon with a mix of irritation and confusion. The young assistant district attorney had just finished going through the case file and hadn't been pleased with the answers he'd gotten from the officers.

"Sergeant Hollywood worked with two officers who have a direct connection to two of our victims," Gordon responded.

"Sergeant Giovanni Perulfi was the arresting officer in Robert Mayfair's last arrest; the collar was good, but Mayfair beat the rap due to errors at the lab." Renee stepped forward and placed an open file in front of Lieberman. "Hollywood was his training officer."

Maggie Sawyer placed a second file in front of the A.D.A.. "Detective Ronald Martin worked a rape in which the victim, an 18-year-old high school student on a class trip from Wisconsin, claimed Forrest Jacks raped her in a private room at the Silhouette club. Jacks beat the rap when the victim recanted. There's reason to suspect she was coerced; no proof. He and Hollywood were partners in a patrol car for over five years—until Martin made detective."

"I understand your logic, officers: good cops get tired of watching the bad guys walk so they take things into their own hands. Maybe Hollywood passes the weapon to one of these two and they take out each other's perp, sort of a 'Strangers on a Train' pact. I see it, I really do, I just don't see a path to a successful conviction." Lieberman pushed the files toward the middle of the table. "The only real evidence you've got is the bullet from the Pervenesch shooting. I won't even go into how problematic your source on that is going to be. The Dark Knight's stock isn't what it used to be; he has no standing, so there's no chain of custody as far as the law is concerned. Beyond that, where's the link between Hollywood and Pervenesch?"

"We don't have one." Gordon's shoulders dropped slightly as he answered.

Lieberman stood, adjusted his suit coat and pressed his lips together in a sympathetic grimace. "You put that weapon in someone's hand and link them to either of our victims, and we'll move forward on this, Commissioner. Until then, there's nothing we can do."

Gordon stood politely, hands stuffed in the pockets of his slacks. "You heard the man," he turned and started for the door. "Find me a shooter."

Interlude

It was raining again, and Renee was huddled up in the overstuffed chair by the picture window, barefoot, her knees drawn to her chest. The drapes were pulled back and the streetlights danced across the liquid prisms that ran down the outside of the glass. She watched them the way a little girl might marvel at a kaleidoscope. The picture of her and Daria at the Shore was on the coffee table. She couldn't bring herself to look at it. The rain was a welcome distraction. The bottle of Maker's Mark was gone. In fairness, she'd drained it the last time she'd watched rain sweep over the city. But she was proud of herself for not replacing it, yet.

Amy and Emily sung softly in the darkness. "…There's not enough room in the world for my pain. Signals crossed and love gets lost and time passed makes it plain. Of all my demon spirits I need you the most. I'm in love with your ghost. I'm in love with your ghost …"

The rain was soft and gentle and soothing. 'God washing the sky,' her grandmother had always said. Nothing would wash away the emotions with which she struggled. How could she claim to love Daria if she could so easily fall into the next pair of convenient arms? Whatever hope there had been was gone, she'd thrown it away. There was no explaining, and there would be no forgiving.

She'd spent the evening cleaning up, reclaiming the sofa for its original purpose. No one would ever guess that she'd been sleeping –practically living- on it for months. The kitchen was presentable again. It hadn't been the dishes but the collected weight of she didn't know how many fast food wrappers that had made it look like a cyclone had hit. The potpourri was gone, along with its little bowl. It wasn't her style; it had been Daria's touch. She had to reclaim her home. She had to become comfortable being just herself, again.

She finally allowed herself to look at the picture on the coffee table, to see how happy she had been, once. Gently, she picked it up. Her fingertips brushed the glass as if she could caress the past. Daria had changed her world, allowed her to grow into the woman she'd so long denied . Daria had made all of it, the snide comments of her co-workers, the hostility of her parents, and the derision of the parish, all of it worthwhile. But she was the past. There would be a future. Some day. She knew that if she wanted to see it, she had to let go of that past. Of Daria.

The knock on the door snapped her from her reverie. She placed the picture on the coffee table, stood up, and crossed the room.

The knock came again. She opened the door.

"Hey." Velma stood in the hallway, her hands in the pockets of her heavy overcoat.

"Hi," Renee felt her face grow warm.

"I know I should have called; I hope I'm not interrupting something." Velma glanced at the candles in the darkened apartment.

"No, nothing important."

They stood silently for a moment.

"Can I come in?" Velma smiled awkwardly.

"Yeah," Renee blushed deeper. "Yeah, please."

"Candles." Velma stopped at the end of the sofa. "Are you sure I'm not intruding?" Her eyes moved curiously through the apartment.

Renee shut the door and turned, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she did so. "No, I was just cleaning up a little."

"I'd say a lot," Velma chuckled, taking off her coat. Renee politely took it and moved to the closet by the door, where she hung it up.

"I'd come to see if you'd be interested in getting a bite to eat, but it looks like you're pretty set for a quiet night in." Velma's gaze settled on the weapon on the coffee table.

"I'm not sure I'd be good company for you." Renee shifted awkwardly.

"Let me be the judge of that," Velma took the photograph from the table, smiling at the happiness it conveyed. "This must be Daria."

Renee's eyes widened and her jaw went slack.

"Cops talk," Velma shrugged. "And men are bigger gossips than women ever dreamt of being. They wanted to make sure I knew you liked women, in case it made me uncomfortable." Velma smiled an almost wicked smile.

Renee was speechless.

"I didn't see any reason to tell them I found it quite comfortable, in point of fact." Velma returned the photograph to the table and moved to Renee's side. She placed a supportive hand on Renee's arm.

Renee brushed her palm across her cheek, wiping away a tear that threatened to escape.

"If I had known it was so soon, I would have never…" Velma's word trailed off.

"It wasn't just you." Renee bit back the tears. She was a tough as nails cop, damn it. Wasn't she?

"It wasn't a betrayal, Renee." Velma squeezed Renee's arm gently. "It was just... moving on."

Renee looked for words, and was relieved when the phone rang. She moved away politely to answer it.

"Hello... Yeah, she's right here… Give me the address." Renee moved to the stand by the table.

Velma was studying the photograph.

"Got it, we'll be right there." Renee hung up the phone and placed it back in its cradle.

"Something up?" Velma asked, looking from the picture back to Renee.

"Yeah, Bullock says the commissioner wants us over in Bryant, as soon as we can get there." Renee moved to the coat closet. "We've got a break on the shooter."

Interlude

It was a quarter to nine, and the rain was threatening to turn to sleet by the time Renee and Velma ducked under the police tape and approached Bullock. He was standing in the harsh yellow porch light of an aging 'painted lady' turned apartment building, three blocks west of Robinson Park, at the edge of University Town. It was a lower-middle-class neighborhood, made up of working stiffs and college students. The street and sidewalk were choked with police cars, an ambulance and a thickening crowd of reporters, who were shoving themselves past the late-night revelers that had been drawn to the circus.

"Commissioner's inside-apartment 3C-top of the stairs, second door on the left; watch your head." Bullock kept his hands in the pockets of his trench coat and never even looked at the women as they climbed the stairs and went through the open foyer door.

Renee and Velma climbed the worn stairs to the third floor and a tight hallway with a low ceiling that bisected what had once been the attic of the old Victorian. The apartment wasn't hard to spot; it was the one with the knot of uniformed officers and crime scene technicians at the door. The sea of bodies parted as Renee approached. It wasn't her personality, but the knowledge that Gordon wanted to see her that opened the way ahead of her. She went through the door and into the attic room-turned- apartment. Her breath caught.

"No one's touched anything, yet," Gordon said softly, respectfully, when he felt Renee sidle up beside him. His eyes never left the figure hanging from the rafters at the center of the room.

Renee's carefully studied the body. It was young and physically fit; dressed in a clean, white t-shirt, jeans and running shoes. She'd only seen a few suicides, actual suicides at least. The rope was looped over an exposed rafter and the knot was perfectly placed just behind its left ear. A kitchen chair was tipped over on the floor beneath it. There was a half empty liquor bottle on the coffee table.

"Commissioner-"

He waved her to silence. "Meet Officer Daniel Malinski, formerly of the Gotham PD," he said, indicating the corpse. "He worked patrol out of Third Precinct."

Renee studied the crime scene as Gordon spoke. Maggie Sawyer was standing at a battered kitchen table at the far end of the apartment. She was sorting through a mass of paperwork that might once have been well-organized. When the captain saw Renee, she picked up three files and crossed the room toward them.

"Officer Malinski was no-call, no-show at roll call. He hasn't missed a day in seven years. His partner came by after their shift to check on him and found him like this." Gordon's gaze never left the body. "The partner's outside."

"I'm afraid I'm not following." Renee opened her overcoat and tucked her hands into the pockets of her chinos.

Gordon started to continue, but stopped when he spotted a crime scene technician approaching.

"We're ready to take him down, Commissioner," the technician said respectfully.

"Go ahead," Gordon nodded. Then he turned back to Renee as Maggie joined them.

"I'm not following how this relates to my case, Commissioner." Renee said.

"Officer Malinski's our link to Hollywood," Gordon answered.

"Officer Malinski was engaged to a woman named Audra Costello; her family owns a bakery not far from here. Her father wasn't interested in paying for protection, so Anatoly Pervenesch sent him a message through her-cut her face pretty badly. She could have helped us put him away, but she broke inside. Jumped from the eighth floor of Gotham General." Captain Sawyer held one of the files up. "It's all in the report."

"Malinski had a copy of the police report?" Velma asked.

"He had a regular library of case files, including several on Robert Mayfair and Forest Jacks. All of them illegally obtained, from the look of things." Maggie frowned, her lips pressed together thinly.

"How does that connect him to Hollywood?" Velma asked.

"The officer Hollywood pulled out of the line of fire, the one he lost an eye saving?" Gordon watched as the corpse was neatly wrapped on the gurney, "It was Officer Malinski."

"Can we tie him to the weapon?" Renee asked, watching as the medical examiner's people gently moved the gurney toward the door.

"We found a home-cut copy of a security key along with several photocopies of an actual one and a how-to guide printed out from the net... details how to clone a key from a tuna can..." Maggie answered.

"Creative." Renee said flatly.

"We'll rush processing on the note, sir." The senior technician paused on his way out with the body.

Gordon nodded wordlessly.

"Note?" Renee asked.

"Malinski left a full confession in his suicide note." Maggie shook her head. "He said he couldn't live without the Costello woman-or with his conscience-after he'd killed 'so many people'."

"The press is going to have a field day with this," Gordon grumbled.

"Doesn't this all seem just a little too convenient, Commissioner?" Velma asked.

Gordon didn't answer. He just shot the fed a glare, turned on his heel and left the apartment.

Epilogue

The wind was howling on the roof of Gotham Police Headquarters. Jim Gordon, Maggie Sawyer, Renee Montoya and Velma Dinkley had been standing silently, almost reverently, in the freezing rain for nearly forty-five minutes. A brilliant light illuminated the sky above with a familiar symbol. Renee was ready to call it a night, when the silence was finally broken.

"Commissioner." The voice was dark and hard, and it carried a mix of confidence and brutality that made Renee glad she'd kept herself on the right side of the law. The shadows first moved, then parted, and then, the Batman was on the roof. "Captain Sawyer, Detective Montoya, Agent Dinkley."

Velma tried not to be surprised that he knew her name.

"We're dead on the One-Eyed Jacks shootings." Gordon was blunt. He'd learned to make the most out of these conversations, which typically ended with little notice.

"Word on the street is that you like a cop for them." The new voice was softer and lacked the brutality of the first. Velma caught the briefest glimpse of red and green at the edges of the shadows.

"We did, we do," Gordon replied. "But we'll never make a case."

'Why?" the Batman asked.

"We've got a dead patrolman with a strong tie to one of the victims, and evidence that he had knowledge of the others," Gordon answered, adjusting the collar of his trench coat against the wind. "There was a suicide note. He admitted everything, claimed he acted alone."

"Handwritten?" the Batman asked.

"Printed and signed," Maggie answered.

"This is all pretty neatly packaged for you," the younger voice challenged.

"It's a frame-up, but a good one." Renee agreed.

"Maybe Malinski was our shooter, maybe he was just one of them. Maybe he was innocent in the whole thing. Either way, we'll never make a case against anyone else- not with the evidence he left behind," Gordon growled.

"Even I can only reach so far, Commissioner." The Bat stepped further into the light. "Your department is dirty; you know that. You have to clean it up yourself. I can't help."

"You're right, of course." Gordon huffed.

"I'll be in touch." The Batman stepped back into the shadows. Within a few moments, the rooftop was empty again, except for the sound of the wind and the rain.

Credits

The lyrics of "Ghost" are copyright Emily Saliers and appear on the 1992 album 'Rites of Passage' by the Indigo Girls.


End file.
